On Typewriters and Romy
Locked into the office all day, racing the clock with The Gnome. More stress, more blah-blah to cap off the two day session.
Restless at home. No more Fraziers to watch so I busied myself tidying things and looking forward to getting my paws on a new computer. Not having a computer has forced me to sit about in my new study scratching at pieces of reconstituted wood pulp with coloured sticks. It made me remember when taking a typewriter to Guernsey and tapping away on it upstairs in my grandparent's house made me feel like a real writer.
When I was about 14 I came across a green typewriter that had been left with my mum by her Auntie Kay. One day I decided to have a go on it, and needing something to type I simply made up my first poem. It was slow going because I couldn't type. But seeing my words neatly typed was deeply satisfying. Using a typewriter was a very physical experience. There was the snick of the key hitting the paper, and the bell to let you know you weren't typing into the margin, and the smell of tippex to white out your mistakes, and the slightly dusty oily smell of the typewriter itself, and the fact that you had to put the right amount of pressure on each key or the letter would be faint or too bold. And how one character would always be slightly wonky, or the loop in an e would get full of gunk and appear full up when you typed it.
Romy has arranged for me to be met by one of her Mum's ex-students called Hitomi when I arrive at Tokyo airport. Hopefully Hitomi will shepherd me off to a train station. All quite exciting and a bit scary at the same time. I can't really picture myself on the bullet train to Shizuoka yet.
Although an excellent cook, Romy is doing a cookery course, and recently triumphed in quiche making. She also recommends it as a way of meeting ladies. My inner Romy agrees too. It kills two birds with the same stone. As you are learning how to cook better, you can efficiently wax your moustache in the direction of your fellow students. And, as Mum pointed out, at least you know that you might get a date with someone who can cook.
Locked into the office all day, racing the clock with The Gnome. More stress, more blah-blah to cap off the two day session.
Restless at home. No more Fraziers to watch so I busied myself tidying things and looking forward to getting my paws on a new computer. Not having a computer has forced me to sit about in my new study scratching at pieces of reconstituted wood pulp with coloured sticks. It made me remember when taking a typewriter to Guernsey and tapping away on it upstairs in my grandparent's house made me feel like a real writer.
When I was about 14 I came across a green typewriter that had been left with my mum by her Auntie Kay. One day I decided to have a go on it, and needing something to type I simply made up my first poem. It was slow going because I couldn't type. But seeing my words neatly typed was deeply satisfying. Using a typewriter was a very physical experience. There was the snick of the key hitting the paper, and the bell to let you know you weren't typing into the margin, and the smell of tippex to white out your mistakes, and the slightly dusty oily smell of the typewriter itself, and the fact that you had to put the right amount of pressure on each key or the letter would be faint or too bold. And how one character would always be slightly wonky, or the loop in an e would get full of gunk and appear full up when you typed it.
Romy has arranged for me to be met by one of her Mum's ex-students called Hitomi when I arrive at Tokyo airport. Hopefully Hitomi will shepherd me off to a train station. All quite exciting and a bit scary at the same time. I can't really picture myself on the bullet train to Shizuoka yet.
Although an excellent cook, Romy is doing a cookery course, and recently triumphed in quiche making. She also recommends it as a way of meeting ladies. My inner Romy agrees too. It kills two birds with the same stone. As you are learning how to cook better, you can efficiently wax your moustache in the direction of your fellow students. And, as Mum pointed out, at least you know that you might get a date with someone who can cook.
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